


Sway Me Close, Sway Me Now

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [267]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Bossy!Tony, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feelings, First Kiss, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation with an Audience, Mild D/s, Pining While Lusting, Silver Fox Tony, Sugar Baby Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-03-17 08:19:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18961441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “And this,” Jarvis said, “would be your room."“Ah,” Steve said, a little slack-jawed. “Huh.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: [This](https://www.dorchestercollection.com/wp-content/uploads/PJH-Sanctuary-image_landing-1-1920x840.jpg).
> 
> And if you are new to the Mental Mimosa series, I strongly suggest you read an important note about how MM works [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1012767).

“And this,” Jarvis said, “would be your room."

“Ah,” Steve said, a little slack-jawed. “Huh.”

The butler glided ahead over a thick oriental carpet, gesturing towards an opulent armoire, the big bed. “It shall be yours for tonight, at the very least."

There was a suit spread carefully on the bed, smooth and sleek. In the armoire, as Jarvis opened it, Steve spied a starched shirt, a waistcoat, and an elegant tie.

“Mr. Stark would like you to wear these when you dine with him this evening,” Jarvis said. “You will let me know if there’s any problem with the size.”

“Of course,” Steve said faintly, for what else could he say? They were far past the point of a choice, had been ever since he’d sat in that dark-panelled office at Stark Tower and signed the contract, aware every moment of the way Stark’s lawyer was watching him, searching for a glimmer of last-minute jitters. Having a unsteady colt in his stable would not suit Mr. Stark, Steve had practically heard the man thinking. Not for the kind of money they were talking about here. Not for this sort of gig.

A six-month engagement, that’s what was on the table. Six months of first teasing and then appeasing the tabloids, of being photographed in public on Mr. Stark’s arm, of fanning the flames of a scandal, the sort that Mr. Stark in his youth had been known for. But it had been many years since Stark had appeared in the gossip columns, since his image had been in every magazine with a starlet on his lap or a wedding ring on his hand. It wasn’t vanity that was driving this project, though, oh no: the whole gig was a matter of profit.

As Stark’s lawyer, Rhodes, had explained it, nobody talked about Stark Industries anymore. They were seen as too stable, too boring: like General Electric or something, like Bell Telephones. People took the Stark brand for granted or saw it as staid--the people who made products their parents had cared about and that shit was bad for business. Never mind, Rhodes had said, that they still made the best of the best in radios, receivers, and television sets; if people weren’t talking, then people weren’t buying, and Tony Stark was sick of being treated like something that belonged in the past.

“Which is where you come in, kid.” Rhodes had leaned back, rolling a cigar in his fingers. “You’re just the shot in the arm Tony’s public image needs to get him back in the spotlight again."

“But I won’t actually have to go to bed with him.”

“No.” A grin and the snap of a Zippo. “When you’re in public, though, you’ll need to look like you do."

“Why me?” The question had been bugging Steve since he’d been shown into Rhodes’ office by a redhead with a swing in her step. “Why did Mr. Stark, er, pick me? I mean, I don't--we've never met."

Rhodes waved a hand at the blue rings around his head. “Believe it or not, you were recommended.”

“By whom?”

The lawyer had given him a wolfish smile. “Somebody whose word Tony trusts. We were told that you’re man of absolute discretion and dare I say honor, Mr. Rogers. Is that so?”

Steve raised his eyebrows. Felt his cheeks color a little. “I, uh. I try to be.”

“And beyond that, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re definitely Tony’s type.” Rhodes’ eyes skated over him; it didn’t help with Steve’s burgeoning blush. “Yeah, I think this might work out very nice.”

He’d thought about it overnight, about the damage he might do his own reputation. About the strangeness of living, for a little while, anyway, a very false and plastic sort of life. And then he thought about the paper-thin walls that separated him from his neighbor; about the cigarette butts in the hall and the busted pane in the front door that the super was always promising he would fix. He thought about his empty refrigerator. He thought about the leaky pipes. He thought about making enough money in six months to live on for the rest of his life. And for what? he’d asked himself at three AM. For pretending to like an older guy, for having dinner with him, going to rich people events. For no sex, nothing like that, except maybe a kiss. He wouldn’t be prostituting himself, no way; he’d be saving himself, pulling himself up from the Brooklyn side of the gutter, and he deserved that, didn’t he? It was what his mom would have wanted: for him to find away to grab onto a better life.

By eight AM, then, his one suitcase had been packed and he’d been combing his hair in the mirror, figuring out the fastest way to get uptown and back to Stark Tower, to Mr. Rhodes’s office to sign the next six months of his life away.

Except, he thought, standing in that bedroom in Stark’s mansion, the door closing soft as Jarvis left, this whole thing was still temporary until they got one more sign off: one from Tony Stark. If Steve didn’t impress the man at dinner that night, then the deal was off, kaput, void, per page 3 of the contract, paragraph II; all he’d walk away with if Stark wasn’t swayed would be a fancy meal.

He reached for his tie. His fingers were shaking.

“Well,” he said to himself as he finally slid the thing free and let it slither to the floor, “hell, it’s a couple of hours of conversation, right? How bad can it be?”


	2. Chapter 2

Tony Stark sat down at his dining room table a good ten minutes because he was nervous, goddamnit. He was man enough to admit that. And when he was antsy, he drank, and having the kid’s first impression of him as a man who got blotto for company--for a stranger, no less--wasn’t the look he was going for. Not at all.

“You’ll like him,” Rhodey had told him, over and over, like a keeper used to soothing a tiger. “He’s big, blonde, and shockingly earnest for somebody good-looking. Whatever’s happened to the kid up to now, he’s kept his head.”

“Yeah, ok, fine,” Tony had said every time. “But what if he doesn’t like me?”

Rhodey had laughed and shoved over the scotch bottle. “That shit’s all you, Tone. Don’t put any of that crap on my plate."

It was a genius plan, Tony’s was--a novel way to get the flashbulbs on him again and drum up some business for the company, besides. It’d been 10 years since his last divorce, 10 years since Pepper Stark nee Potts had taken him to the cleaners; 10 years since he’d given his board reason to worry. And they liked it that way, his board, they of the slow and steady ship. But after almost 30 years of steering said ship towards the same goddamn horizon, Tony was bored. Bored and lonely. And when he was bored and lonely, he drank. But booze didn’t affect him the same way at 52 that it had at 22; he couldn’t bounce back from a bender with quite the same kick. He sighed. Being old didn’t stop him from imbibing--hell, Prohibition hadn’t--but it sure as shit made it less fun.

He wondered if Rogers, the kid, drank, or if he stuck just to soda pop.

 _Christ,_ he thought, spearing a hand through his Brylcreemed salt and pepper, _he’s 25, not 12_.

 _Yeah, well_ , the Jiminy Cricket in him thought, _from where you’re sitting, grandad, he might as well be._

25 was too young to have fought in the last war, the big one, but old enough to have been in Korea, old enough to be married, have a family. Hell, at 25, Tony had already cut ties with one wife and been well on his way to his second. He smiled. Ah, Nat. She’d hated it when he called her that. Natasha with her dark red hair and her persimmon lips and her living sin of a body, a masterwork of God’s own creation that a man could drown in for days. If only that was all marriage was, sex; sex and the soft, river sink of the time that came after: his head on her chest and her fingers in his hair, gliding, as she murmured to him in her mother tongue, the fan turning slow overhead.

They’d been great in the bedroom, not so good anyplace else. Their eternal union thing had only lasted six months.

Fuck, he missed her sometimes. He’d heard she was in Washington still, working with the newly christened Department of Defense. He wished he’d made an effort back then to stay friends. But he’d been too busy chasing tail already, searching for the next score. That was just the way it’d been for him back then, something akin to a philosophy: if he didn’t have to spend the small hours alone, counting the hours until the sun came back to life, then why, pray tell, should he? So he’d moved on without really closing the books solid with Nat and yeah, 30 years on, he still missed her.

He set his glass aside and reached for his cigarette case. He tapped one out on the table. Told himself that if he could make it six months with Nat, then six months with anybody, even at his age, would surely be a big, frosted cake.

And this kid was big. Rhodey and Barnes both had been clear on that.

“This is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve heard from you, you know that?” Barnes had said to him, point blank. “And that’s saying a lot.”

Tony stuck his tongue out. “I find myself unmoved by your antipathy.”

“Tough shit. I’m right.”

Tony had tucked his arm behind his head and stretched long in the bed, done his best to ignore the sounds of his bones cracking. “You’ll notice, I hope, that I wasn’t asking for your permission. It was more of an FYI.”

Barnes snorted and scratched at his chest, at the claw marks that Tony’d taken great glee to make. “Well, thanks so much. Didn’t know I warranted a special announcement.”

“Also,” Tony had said, “I wanted your opinion. What's your take? Think it'll work?"

It was quiet for a moment. He’d heard Barnes’ wheels grinding. That was something he adored about the guy: how seriously he took a question when it was posed to him serious. For an up-and-comer, somebody still shaking free of a sergeant’s stripes even after almost a decade out from Uncle Sam’s thumb, Barnes always wore his head straight.

“I think,” he said finally, “that it’s so fucking dumb that yeah, it’ll probably work. Probably But only if you find the right guy.” He rolled on his side, Barnes did, and propped his head on his hand, gazed down at Tony in the firelight with those robin’s egg eyes. “Yeah, that’s gonna be your biggest hang-up, Tone. You find the right mook, somebody who can keep his mouth shut, and maybe this thing gets off the ground. You pick some random guy because you want him to stick his dick in you and this shit will crash hard. And burn.”

Tony’d reached up and touched Barnes’ face, rubbed his thumb through the man’s perpetual scruff. “You got any suggestions in re: mooks, Buck, I’m listening.”

Barnes’s mouth had turned up. Beneath the sheets, his free hand found Tony’s hip. “Maybe,” he said, “I know a guy. Maybe.”

And now here he was, a month later, sweating like he should have as a groom and never had, all because of a kid he’d never met, a kid who was--he looked his watch, his gut curled in a weird sort of triumph--about to be officially late.

The door to the hall popped open just as the clock in the living room struck and abracadabra, a nervous-looking guy appeared, wearing the suit Tony'd picked out himself.

“Hi,” the kid said, and oh, hell, he was gorgeous: big and blonde and broad-chested but with eyes like a waif. “Hello, um. sir. I’m Steve Rogers. Sorry I’m late.”


	3. Chapter 3

The man who Steve presumed was Anthony Stark smiled a little, his lips lifting around the end of a cigarette. “You’re not late,” Mr. Stark said. “You’re right on time.”

“My mom used to say that arriving five minutes early was on time and anything after that, uh, wasn’t. Old habits, I guess.”

Mr. Stark chuckled and raised a hand, beckoning. “Punctuality is never a fault in my book, Steve. May I call you Steve? Huh, I just did. Now quit holding up the doorway and come in.”

He pointed Steve to the chair on his right and Steve sat. Steve swallowed. Steve tried to remember to breathe--and it wasn’t just the blue smoke curling out of Mr. Stark’s mouth that was making it difficult. It was the man himself.

Before he’d gotten that call from Mr. Rhodes’s office, before he’d been offered this gig, he’d known the name Stark, of course, but he’d never put the face with a name. After that first meeting, in his initial flush of indecision, he’d gone to the library and looked the guy up; most of the photos he found, though, were from back in the day: wide collars and bathtub gin and Young Mr. Stark (as the papers called him then) being hustled in handcuffs and a smirk out of some speakeasy or other. He’d gotten popped a lot, apparently. He’d been good-looking then, barefaced and dark, neatly combed hair, but the man who sat beside him, who was pouring him a glass of wine, who was chatting easily in a way that required Steve only to nod had aged into the kind of handsome that made Steve think of mahogany, of good brandy, of dark-panelled rooms and big tight-rolled cigars and the strong hands of a man used to getting his way.

The neatly-combed was still there, in his hair, but the brown had long since given way to gray, a color echoed in his mustache and slim, Van Dyke beard. And his eyes! God, those old black and whites in the papers hadn’t done them justice at all. No, Stark’s eyes were so sharp, so brightly lit, that Steve could feel each sweep of the things over him. He felt faintly as if he were being taken apart.

Beneath the table, in the perfectly tailored trousers that Mr. Stark had picked out for him, his cock twitched.

_God_. Steve's ears burned; Mr. Stark was still talking. He took another pull of the red.

He’d been with a few men before, in that way. Men who looked at him like he was a creature carved from divination and touched him until he felt like one, until they fell back and pulled him inside and made him feel as if another kiss would give him wings and send him up to the sky. But Mr. Stark’s gaze--everything about Mr. Stark, proper--was different. In these first moments of their acquaintance, appraisal, he was making Steve feel pleasantly profane.

He gulped and held harder to the crystal of his wine glass. It was a goddamn peculiar, is what it was, him having so strong a reaction to anybody, much less to, oh, his potential employer. He couldn’t remember the last time it’d happened. Had it? Huh. Maybe it hadn’t before. Maybe he was just--

“Are you hungry?” Mr. Stark said.

Steve jumped. It set his place setting rattling. “Am I what?”

“Hungry, Steve. Are you ready to dine?” A frown, a flick of ash. “Hmm. When’s the last time you ate? I heard you’ve been a bit hard up, if you don’t mind me saying. You’ll looking a little green in gills.”

“No, ah, I mean, yes, sir. Food would be great. I just”--he set his wine down; had he really knocked back that much already?--“shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, I guess.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Mr. Stark picked up a bell from the table and gave it a shake. “But that’s on me, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have let you. Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”

A cold salad came out first, borne by Jarvis. Then some hot bread and a warm, filling soup.

“So,” Mr. Stark said, settling back with a freshly lit cig. He hadn’t eaten a thing. “Why the hell are you interested in this job? And don’t tell me it’s ‘cause you need the money, because that, kid, is obvious. There has to be more to it than that.”

“The money’s a big part of it, honestly.”

“Mmmm, so tell me about that other, little part. Much more interesting, usually, are the motives left unexamined, don’t you think?”

Steve felt a flare of pique. “It isn’t unexamined,” he said. “I’ve thought about it.”

A smirk, that one he’d seen in those crumbling newspapers. “Ah. You just don’t want to share, is that it?”

Intellectually, Steve understood that Mr. Stark was goading him, deliberately poking at him to get some kind of reaction--why, he had no earthly idea--but functionally, he was more than a little buzzed and his body was jazzed from eating something not from the Automat, and without thinking, he rose to the bait.

“I didn’t say that! You keep putting words in my mouth.”

Mr. Stark took a drag and withdrew his cigarette for a second, then slid it slowly back in. “Do I?” he said through a puff of smoke. “Oh dear. Please, Mr. Rogers, the floor is yours. So enlighten me. What it is you’re trying to say?"


	4. Chapter 4

“How did you know that I’ve been hard up?” Steve stared at him, a fierce sort of sloshed. “Did you look at my bank records or something? I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

Tony blinked. Ok, not where he’d thought the guy was going. But there was the temper Bucky had told him about, that Tony had had a hard time squaring with the sketch of the man on paper, with the gentle giant who had stammered in the dining room doorway. He’d been curious, though, so he’d gone after the kid’s goat, and oh, yeah: a couple of solid poke and oh, there it was.

He kept his voice nonchalant. “I had a PI look in to you before he gave you a call. Purely a safety precaution; Rhodey was pretty insistent. I’m sure you can understand why.”

Now it was Steve’s turn to blink. “A PI? You...you had me investigated?"

“Yes, I did. And if the way you’ve demolished every dish that’s been put in front of you this evening is any indication, then my sources were correct.”

That got him another glare. He was beginning to like that look. “Maybe I just didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Or supper yesterday. Or lunch the day before. But the, I'd imagine that's hard to do when you give a solid half of your paycheck every week to someone else. Or lots of someone else’s, I suppose.” Steve looked confused; maybe that was the wine. Never mind. Tony seized the advantage. “You have a bad habit of looking after other people first and yourself second, Steve. That was my big takeaway from the PI’s report.”

“You’re supposed to take care of people,” Steve said stubbornly. “That’s why they call it the golden rule, isn't it? Treat others as you want to be treated."

Tony spread his hands. “Sure, yeah. But not to the point where you put yourself half a step from the poorhouse. Then you can’t help anybody, can you? If you’re destitute yourself. There’s a fine line between charity and martyrdom, kid.”

Steve’s jaw was set. “Is that what this is to you, Mr. Stark? Is that why you asked me to come here, as some kind of charity chase?”

_Ah,_ Tony thought, a rose moment of revelation. _I’ve hurt his pride, haven’t I? Well. We can’t have that._

He sat back and reached for his wine, let the tension simmer, linger, play out like a light show all over Steve’s pretty face. “I asked you to come here,” he said at last, “because you’re a good man, Steve Rogers. Dare I say an honorable one. And yeah, you need the money, I get that, but once you have it”-- _if_ , the negotiator part of his brain said; _just because he’s gorgeous when he’s angry doesn’t mean you should give the damn store away_ \--“you’ll make the most of it. For yourself, I hope, but for lots of others too, I suspect. And that means a great deal to me. My mother was like that; I think that’s part of the reason. Selfless without a second thought.”

“And you’re not, are you.” It wasn’t really a question.

Tony’s heart was pounding in his ears. God, the way Steve was looking at him, still pointed even as the kid’s anger faded. He’d been wrong before; the man before him was no waif. He might have the face of an angel, but somewhere inside, there was steel, and shit, Tony marvelled, biting back a chuckle, “what he wouldn’t give to see that steel melt.

“Me, selfless?” he said. “No. But I do enjoy looking after people, sometimes, when I’m in the right frame of mind. And I think I could do that for you.”

“How?”

_Oh, my_ , Tony thought. He felt dizzy. There were too many answers to that question, too many that ended with _and your cock in my mouth_. He wondered if Steve would stay that same shade of indignant pink when he was close, or if his face would find a whole new kind of red. Would it stay red as Steve came down, as Tony pushed him to knees? Would Steve look him in the eye as Tony rubbed his cock against his lips, or he’d have to be told with a sharp voice and a tug on that neat, golden hair? Would he--?

Tony cleared his throat. “With more suits like that one, for one thing. Some new shoes, some new paints. I can have a room set up for you to use as a studio, if you’d like. Did you bring your sketchbooks with you?”

“Of course. They go everywhere I do.”

“Well, there, you see?” His fingers flexed over his lighter, messed with the cream tablecloth. “And I can introduce you to folks I know who are big into the arts. Who knows? You might find yourself a patron while you’re here. Make enough money to make me look like a piker.”

Fuck, he thought, why the hell was he trying to sell the kid on the job? he wondered. It was a good deal already, that much dough for a few public smooches, some grand dinners out on the town. A shredding of Steve’s reputation, maybe, but he didn’t really have one to begin with, did he? He wouldn’t feel the loss of something he’d never had.

But he would, Tony thought, feeling his own face redden beneath his beard. Now that he’d seen Steve Rogers, crossed swords with him, hell--nobody else would do in this crazy scheme of his, would they? He wanted Steve. Maybe even coveted him, a little. And if he had to sell the kid on what was already the opportunity of a lifetime, so be it. Nobody else would fucking do.

Steve was blinking at him now, like a man who’d just moved from the dark to the light. “You’d do that?”

“I’d be happy to.”

A little smile. “But you don’t know if I’m any good.”

“Not yet, no. But I have a feeling you’ll show me, don’t you?”

It didn’t come out quite right. It also didn’t sound completely wrong. And was Tony dreaming or was it the wine talking, the bourbon beforehand: was there a new kind of heat in Steve’s gorgeous face?

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I do.” His mouth lifted. “Does this mean I got the job?”

“Eh,” Tony said, because what the hell. It had always been his way to push his luck; he’d survived a crash, a Depression, and a world war that way. Why would this be any different? “There’s one more test I have to run, actually.”

Steve’s smile dipped. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Tony’s blood was an ocean in his ears. He felt incredibly foolish. He felt like the universe, for whatever moody reason, had for the first time in a long time, handed him a gift.

So he let go of his lighter and what remained of his sense and leaned forward and cupped the hot curve of Steve’s jaw, and oh, sweet Lord: the shock on Steve’s face was worth the price of tonight alone. “Come here,” Tony said softly, a feather on bone china. “Come right here, kid, and kiss me.”


	5. Chapter 5

Later, Steve would return to that moment, would marvel at Mr. Stark’s surety, his own lack of hesitation, in the clarity of Mr. Stark’s command. Because that’s precisely what it was; he’d known it even then, and despite a life lived resisting every bit of goddamn authority the world threw in his path, he’d bent his head and followed the curve of Stark’s hand and slid their mouths together, a key and a lock.

For an instant, it felt as if everything in the universe fit. For an instant, Stark yielded to him, let Steve shape the dry soft of his lips. His beard bit Steve’s chin and his grip slid to Steve’s neck. He made the smallest hot little sound.

 _Oh,_ Steve thought somehow, a faint bulb of recognition. _He likes this_. _He likes me_.

And then he wasn’t thinking, he was opening his mouth and chasing that small hungry sound and all at once Stark was pushing back, taking, his tongue a warm, heady force in Steve’s mouth as his nails dug into Steve’s neck and there was no question as to whose kiss it was now, who was in charge here, and how. Nobody had ever kissed him like that before.

He whimpered, a sound that should have shamed him. As should’ve the tent in his shorts. And they did, later, both of them, when he was alone in his room, peeling out of Mr. Stark’s fancy clothes, afraid to look at himself in the mirror. But in the moment, he hadn’t been rational. He hadn’t wanted to be. When Stark kissed him, all he had known was a want.

“There,” Mr. Stark said. He tipped back but let his hand linger. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No.” The word came out garbled; he tried again. “No, sir.”

Was it his imagination, or did Stark’s eyes go midnight at his words? He was too shell-shocked to be sure. Still, there was no imagining the stroke of Stark’s fingertips up the line of his neck and down again the flushed heat of his throat.

“Great. You think you can do that on cue? And with an audience?”

Steve swallowed. He felt Mr. Stark trace it. “I think so. But I guess I won’t know till I try.”

“That’s very true.” One last brush of Stark’s fingers and then the man let him go. Reached again for his wine. “But something tells me that you’re gonna do just fine.”

In short order, there was bread pudding and a sweet aperitif. When he looked down, Steve’s plate was scraped clean, but he didn’t remember taking a bite.

“Get some sleep,” Mr. Stark said in the doorway. He was turning his big silver lighter in his hands. “You need it. We’ll talk again in the morning, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said. “All right.”

Stark chuckled. ”Steve, you don’t have to call me sir. In fact, you might want to avoid the habit. If you call me that in public, when we’re out together, people might get the wrong idea about you, hmmm?”

“I don’t understand.”

That got him an eyebrow. “Oh yes you do. Or you will when you’re not sloshed. Think about it when you wake up. Will you do that for me?”

Something in Steve melted like butter on a stovetop. “Ok, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark smiled at him again and Steve’s eyes fell to his lips, watched them say: “There’s a good boy. Good night.”

In his rooms, he undressed as quick as he could and hung things up with shaking fingers and crawled into the shower, turned the taps straight cold and stood there shivering until he could think clearly again, until the hum of the wine and of Mr. Stark’s mouth had grown quiet, like the sounds of the street tucked behind a closed window: not absent, but manageable. His cheeks burned even as his skin pimpled with gooseflesh and when he stumbled into a towel and then into the folds of his four-poster bed, his head was a blur of shame and the shadows of arousal, of the firm edges of Mr. Stark’s voice: _Kiss me. Get some sleep. Think about it when you wake up._

 _This is pretend_ , he told himself as he burrowed into borrowed pillows, shivering in someone else’s bed. _He’s paying you, idiot. That kiss tonight, his hands, the way he looked at you--it’s all part of the act._ _He's playing at this, just like you are. Like you're supposed to be._

At least there wasn’t a question, anyway, as to if Stark would be able to hold up his end; from the looks of it, he’d excel at his part.

But could he? Steve asked himself. If one kiss from the guy had sent him into so heady a tailspin, what the hell would it be like when Stark gave him two? Or if after supper some night, at his club, he tugged Steve into his lap and held him there while he talked with other captains of industry, absently petting Steve’s thigh as he chatted about the stock market or something, nuzzling Steve’s throat until he started to sigh.

“Behave yourself,” Mr. Stark might whisper when Steve started to shiver. “If you can’t sit still, I’ll take you home.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

The squeeze of a strong hand at his hip. A nip. “No? You want me to put you to bed without supper? I don’t think you’d like that very much, sweet boy.”

Steve curled up and dug his hands into the soft sheets, Mr. Stark’s sheets, and gritted his teeth. Reminded himself firmly that the night had been the first of many, many many, which would involve Mr. Stark’s playacting and his playacting on Mr. Stark’s behalf and if his body was going to overreact like this every damn time Stark kissed him, then it would be a long slog, these next six months, indeed.

It wouldn’t be like this every time, though, would it? he wondered. Surely not. He’d get used to it, his body would, skirting the edge of intimacy with someone. His body would learn it was all part of an act. That thought was comforting; he clung to it. It’d been ages since he’d been with anyone, that was all. No wonder tonight had left him feeling so fucking confused.

He was confused. His body was lonely. _Give it some time_ , he told himself, twisting under the covers, sighing. _You’ll figure it out_.  _You'll be able to see what's real and what's not._

 _Get some sleep_ , Mr. Stark had told him. He replayed the words in his mind again, remembered the kind look on Stark’s face. Firm, the man’s face was. The kind of face you couldn’t argue with. _Shhh, there now_ . He imagined he felt Stark’s hand in his hair, the same nails that had scored his neck digging in gently, tugging. _That’s it. Go on. Get some sleep_.

So Steve closed his eyes, winched them shut, really, and willed himself into slow, dreamless deep.


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning, there were eggs and bacon for breakfast. And a telephone borne in on a silver tray.

“Good morning!” Mr. Stark boomed, his voice coffee-fed clear. “You slept well, I see, or so the clock tells me. I asked Jarvis to ring me when you were up."

“I’m sorry,” Steve said sheepishly. It didn't seem appropriate to say  _it's because the thought of you made me toss and turn the whole night_. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Mr. Stark laughed. “Don’t apologize. It’s delightful. Some days, I’d kill for a leisurely morning. But it never seems like quite the right time.”

Steve’s mind--up and until now still half asleep--took the bait and ran with it and in an instant suggested a half dozen different ways that Steve might keep Mr. Stark snug in bed. He blushed over his scrambled eggs and knocked over the salt and Mr. Stark wasn’t even here, for crying out loud. He was worse than a schoolkid with a crush.

“Don’t take too long with your breakfast though. You have a busy day ahead.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” Mr. Stark said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve laid it all out for you.”

First, a trip to the tailor: “Try on anything you like. They’ll have some things pulled per my suggestions, but don’t treat that as a limitation, all right?”

Then, lunch alone at some place Steve had never heard of: Samara’s at West and 59th.

“You’ll be dining on my dollar,” Mr. Stark said. Steve could hear the glee in his voice. “I made the reservation myself, not at all subtly. It’s under your name. Mr. Rogers.”

Finally, a blank check at Lindsey’s in the Village, the finest art supply store in the five boroughs.

“I hope it goes without saying that you should get whatever you want. Just give them my name. Oh, and if there’s anything that won’t fit in the car--or that’s too heavy for my dear dusty Jarvis to lift--then ask them to wrap it and send it over later today."

“Um,” Steve said into the receiver. Lord, this was a surreal way to start the morning, especially when it was already practically noon. “I mean, thank you. It’s really nice of you do all this for me.”

“Mmmm.” A self-satisfied sound, one that reminded him of their kiss, of the hum of Mr. Stark’s lips against his, right there at that very table. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s the honey, my boy, the kind that precedes the vinegar. We’ve been invited to a supper party on Saturday."

Steve choked on his bacon, coughed hard into his napkin. Managed: “We--we have? But how did they know that we--?”

“Ah, no. Not your by name.” He heard Mr. Stark shuffling paper. “The invitation is addressed, and I quote, to _Mr. Anthony Stark and Guest_. That would be you.”

“Oh.”

“So, before I can show you off the world, Steve, we have to prepare to act like we know each other, yes?”

“How do you mean?”

“That,” Mr. Stark said playfully, “is for me to know and you to find out. Later, over drinks. I have a dinner meeting that I can’t break and if my last engagement with the senator is any predictor, I won’t be home until after 10. Think you can stay awake for me?”

Steve’s grip on the receiver went tight. God, did Mr. Stark know what he sounded like? Was he deliberately teasing, or was this how he spoke to all his overnight guests? Or to anybody for whom he bought clothes?

He cleared his throat, decided to give as good as he got. “For you, Mr. Stark, I’ll certainly try.”

He could hear Mr. Stark smile. “And that, surely, is all I can ask.”

 

*****

 

The suits were too much. The shirts, too. The shoes were simply over the top; what man needed five pairs? But if he had orders, the tailor and his minions did, too, and when he tried to back away, they got rather insistent. So five pairs of shoes it was.

Lunch was exquisite. He wanted to marry the appetizer: dates fried with bacon. And simple as the entree was--steak and browned potatoes--it was so good he wanted to weep. Everyone else in the place, though, seemed to take it in stride. The lady draped in sable at the next table even complained to the waiter about the state of her (perfectly lovely looking) salad and good lord, Steve thought from behind his third role, I hope I never get that jaded.

But Lindsey’s--walking into Lindsey’s with a carte blanche was a dream. He’d been inside a half dozen times before, staring with big eyes at the top quality oils that cost more than his rent, the fine brushes on which he’d have gladly spent every dime. But easing down the cheerfully stocked aisles knowing he could pick up whatever he wanted made the whole place look different and it felt, he thought, running his fingers over tightly-stretched canvas, like he’d never really seen it before.

“Ah, you’re Mr. Rogers!” the salesgirl said when he made it to the counter and fumbled over Mr. Stark’s name. She looked down at the reasonably-sized pile of paints he’d just dumped before her. “Is this all?”

It took three more trips to the shelves and another besweatered co-ed to wrap all the stuff up as the first banged on the register before the ladies of Lindsey’s would let him leave.

“Anthony Stark?” Steve heard one say to the other as he pushed onto the sidewalk. “Who the heck is that, besides some rich cat?”

“A rich cat,” the other one said, frankly, “who managed to land himself _that_.”

“Mr. Rogers?” Jarvis said politely once the bags were in the trunk and they were back again in Mr. Stark’s long, black town car. “Is there anywhere else you wish to go this afternoon? I’m happy to accomodate you.”

Steve leaned his head back against the leather seat and breathed and realized was beat all of a sudden, the weight of the day, its weirdness, dropping over his shoulders like a soaked winter coat.

He smiled a little at Jarvis in the mirror. “Thank you, no. I’m fine.”

Jarvis bowed his head a bit and turned the key. “Very good, sir. I shall take you home, then.”  
  
_Home_ , Steve thought as he tipped his temple to the window. His lips found a smile as the sidewalks slid by.  _I guess it is, for now. Huh_.


	7. Chapter 7

It was well after ten before Tony finally escaped from his dining companions and threw himself rather unceremoniously into a cab; nearly eleven by the time he made his way wearily up the front steps and inside through a Jarvis-held door.

“Did you have a pleasant evening, sir?” Jarvis asked as he divested Tony of his topcoat.

“Not especially. The senator was on a jag about the Red Menace that I’ve heard him opine a dozen times before. It’s the sort of subject on which logic can’t move him, which would be rather terrifying if I thought about it too hard. You’d like to think that’s what our boys in Washington run on, no? Logic and facts and good sense.”

“That would seem to be an optimal approach.”

Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair, felt every inch of his tedious evening. Hell of a nightcap, he thought, getting yammered at by politicians hungry for a handout after such a long, busy day. Once, he'd have gotten home from a night like this and still had a few hours of work left in him. Not anymore. “Well," he said, "we can’t always get what we want, can we, Jarvis?”

“No, sir.” Jarvis turned from the closet with a polite little cough. “Though young Mr. Rogers is waiting for you in the lounge.”

Tony’s heart gave a greedy thump; he kicked himself. How could he have let himself forget about the kid? Tired and bored was no goddamn excuse for that. “He’s still awake?”

“Yes, sir. Or so he was a quarter of an hour ago when I last stuck my head in.” Jarvis’s mouth twitched, barely, like a kitchen curtain stirred by a breeze. “He followed your instructions to the letter and I believe it’s begun to catch up with him.”

“Did he eat dinner?”

“He took his supper in his, ah”--here Jarvis looked a bit dubious--“in the room you set aside as his _studio_ , sir, and then decamped to the lounge to await your return.”

Suddenly, the hours had passed between last night and now, between the soft peach of Steve’s mouth open against his own, had their own weight to them, an especial drag, and Tony came within a heartbeat of bolting down the long hall.

Instead, he smiled at Jarvis, at the familiar crags of the old gentleman’s gentleman’s face--a face that had, from his boyhood until now, never seemed to have really changed. “Good night, Jarvis."

A bob of his silver head, a turn of his lips again. “Good night, sir.”

  
*****

 

He kept his steps measured. It was almost impossible. Especially when he caught sight of the cracked door, the light. He peeked in and saw Steve on the settee. His feet were bare and he was wearing a loose, moth-eaten sweater and there was a book tipped over his knee, its spine towards the ceiling. He was, without question, asleep.

Relaxed like that, dead to the world, he looked untouched, unmarred, like something out of a fairytale: a beauty lured into everlasting sleep, awaiting the kiss of a prince, and Tony had to hold onto the goddamn doorframe to keep himself from doing just that. Oh fuck, he thought, the swoop in his stomach sharp and hot, that’s it, Stark. One day with the guy, one lingering smooch, and look you--you’ve got it bad, old man.

“Jarvis?” Steve mumbled. He sat up a little, blinking towards the door; the book crashed soft on the floor. “Is that you?”

“No, it’s me,” Tony said. “Should I be hurt you can’t tell the difference? The man's got a couple decades on me.”

Steve’s eyes went wide, his back stiffening. “Oh! Mr. Stark!”

Tony drifted into the room, his feet moving before his head could say no. “You fell asleep," he said.

“I tried not to.”

“You fell asleep.” He lingered over the words like whiskey. He was at the front of the settee now, one knee pressed between Steve’s, looking down into the kid’s sleep-folded face. “I asked you to wait up, didn’t I? I was quite clear about that.”

Heat spread over Steve’s cheeks, down the creamy river of his throat. “I tried,” he said. “That’s why I came in here instead of waiting in my room. I thought being out here would help.”

Tony’s fingers twitched at his sides. What the fuck was he doing? he wondered. He wasn’t really angry; he wasn’t even surprised. It was late, after all, and if the kid had done all Tony asked, then he’d had a hell of a day. But there was something about Steve that made him want to raise his voice a little, made him want to be a little grabby, made him want to see that pretty face swallowed up by a blush. Well. It was the part he’d written for himself, wasn’t it? Older Man Who Should Know Better Takes Up with Young Man Half His Age. Spoils him, pampers him, installs him in a fancy house and drives the tabloids crazy--something he’d never wanted to do in real life. Oh, there had been boys now and then--between wives, especially--a few he’d met in Europe and invited back from the Riviera, but those had always been temporary, like lovely cut flowers--they smelled divine and felt like sin against the skin but all parties knew there was a shelf life. And God knew he’d never had the very particular desire to bring any of them into his home. Except Bucky, perhaps, but Bucky was different, in this as he was in all things; at the very least, he wasn’t a man you could treat like a toy.

But this kid, Steve Rogers, he was different, too, a living contradiction in terms: carved from Michelangelo's daydream on the one hand and fueled by a feisty naivete on the other--a goddamn determination, as Rhodey’s PI had put it, to make the world a better place. He’d been too young for the war but he’d done his fighting after, for war widows and shell-shocked GIs and anybody else he thought the world had turned it back on. It was why he was destitute, practically, holed up in that flop over in Brooklyn with no water and piss-poor heat: he’d spent so long giving everything he had to other people that he’d forgotten, Tony though, how to care for himself.

With a jolt, he suddenly wondered: in his whole life, had Steve ever had anybody look out for him?

“Mr. Stark?”

“Hmm?”

Steve’s hands lifted like slim-fingered birds and lit on the bottom edge of Tony’s suit coat; those blue, blue blue blue eyes kissed his own, velvet. “I’m sorry.”

Tony caught the kid’s wrists and cuffed them gently. He could barely breathe; did the kid have any idea what he was doing? “Are you now.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Steve lowered his lids. “Because,” he said, a puppy brought to heel, “you did all those nice things you did for me today and you only asked me for one thing in return and I--I'm sorry. I didn’t do it."

 _Jesus_. Tony’s hips jerked, all subtlety lost--had there ever been any?--and he half expected Steve to startle away. But instead, he felt the kid’s grip on his coat tighten, felt the strain in his wrists, and his eyes came up again, stuck. They were both shaking, falling tangled together into some deep, honeyed well, and God help him, Tony thought, if they never came up from it again, he’d be fine. They were playing with each other, weren’t they, trying on fake roles--or maybe Steve was just screwing with him; maybe he thought turning Tony on was a means to an end, a way to make the next six months more fun. Maybe he thought this was what Tony wanted, what he’d signed up for. Maybe he just wanted to get fucked. Whatever, screw it, Tony didn’t care; not in that moment when Steve was staring up at him and his dick was stiff and it was the world beyond that room felt unreal, like a half-remembered dream. All that mattered were Steve’s eyes and Steve’s hands and the hard curve of his shoulder that peeked out from his tattered sweater, the gooseflesh there that Tony was dying to touch.

They’d sort it out in the morning, he told himself, knowing it was a goddamn lie. The sun would bring reason and bright light, appointments and alarm clocks, trunk calls and bank accounts. There was no sense in worrying about it now. It wouldn’t change anything, would it, wouldn’t alter the fact that he was dripping from just the touch of Steve’s hands, from the look on his face and the color of crushed cherries on his cheeks.

He wanted this to be real, for Steve to be greedy for him as he was for the kid, but it was ok that it wasn’t, right? He swallowed hard and ignored the twang in his heart. Sure it was. It’d be worth every penny.

“You’re sorry,” Tony said. The words came out like gravel. “That’s nice, isn't it. But I don’t think that saying you’re sorry is good enough, do you?”

Steve made a soft, startled sound that went straight to Tony’s cock, teased out another blurt of wet. “It’s not. I know it.”

Tony stroked the insides of Steve’s wrists. “So. What would you propose?”

Steve’s mouth turned up, a pretty bloom of a smile. “Come sit down beside me and I’ll show you, Mr. Stark.”

He squeezed Steve' wrists quick and a little goddamn too hard. “What will you show me, Steve? Hmmm? I don’t like surprises.”

That sound again, darker now, a flash of something bright in Steve’s eyes. A whisper: “I’ll show you how much I want to be good.”


	8. Chapter 8

Mr. Stark smelled of cigars and cold air, of scotch and certainty; when he sank into the sofa at Steve’s side, there was a waft of it everywhere, all around him. The air itself seemed to sigh.

There was a glint of teeth, the lamplight off Stark’s silver crown. “Is this how you want me?”

“Yes,” Steve said before his mind could put a stop to things, bring this whole mad idea to a screeching halt. “Yes.”

And then he was moving, turning like a cat and straddling Mr. Stark’s lap. He felt ridiculous, somewhere; but mostly, it felt like a dream. He wondered if he was still asleep.

“Oh,” Mr. Stark said. There were those teeth again, joined now by two hands firm on his thighs. He beamed up into Steve’s face. “Hello there, beautiful.”

Steve felt his face turn fire and turned his attention to Mr. Stark’s chest, to the heat that he could feel seeping up from the cotton, the black scratch lines of his vest. “Hi.”

He tried not to think about how strange it was to be sitting in his employer’s lap, a man he’d only met yesterday, for God’s sake, wearing a faded dungarees and a stretched-out sweater while Mr. Stark was dressed to the nines. He was still in his suit coat and lovely creased trousers; was still neatly wrapped in the package of the powerful man that he was, and Steve was--what the hell was Steve doing, honestly, acting so fucking coquettish, like they actually meant something to each other. But Stark had shot the first volley-- _I asked you to wait up, didn’t I?_ \--and it had felt natural to answer back in kind, in character, and now, somehow, he was hard in his dungarees and he knew Mr. Stark could feel it because the man was hard himself.

He felt dirty and foolish and he wanted this gorgeous, generous man so goddamn much.

“Come here.” Stark’s long fingers on the back of his neck, pulling, arching his own back until Steve’s hot face was nestled against it. “Put that lovely mouth of yours to good use.”

Steve kissed Mr. Stark’s throat, nuzzled the pound of his pulse.

Mr. Stark made a slow, delicious sound. “Fuck. Do that again.”

Another kiss, a soft suck, and Mr. Stark was groaning, the pan of his hips lifting, one hand squeezing the curve of Steve’s ass.

“God, you make me crazy,” Mr. Stark said, each word thick. “Haven’t even kissed me properly, you little minx, and you’ve already made my dick stiff. You feel that?”

Steve rocked his hips, rubbed himself against the angry jut of Mr. Stark’s fly. “Mmmm, yes.”

“And wet.” His face turned and Mr. Stark’s mouth was there to meet his. “You’ve got me leaking everywhere.”

He moaned and Stark swallowed it, drank the sound down whole.

“Take that godawful sweater off,” Mr. Stark said against his lips. “Now.”

Steve reared back and tore off and Mr. Stark held him there, hands on Steve’s hips, and stared at him, just stared, with dark and covetous eyes.

“Good boy,” Stark said softly. “That’s it. Let me look at you.”

He reached up and traced the turn of one shoulder, then the other. His fingers followed Steve’s collarbone, touched the well of his throat. Peeled down slowly over his pecs.

“Do you always flush like this when you’re turned on?” Mr. Stark asked. “You’re practically the color of strawberries.”

Steve’s cheeks bloomed again, roses upon roses. “I guess so. Yeah.”

Mr. Stark chuckled, a sound that wound into a purr as he sat up enough to nuzzle Steve’s chest. “It’s a hell of a tell. I promise not to use it against you.” He flicked a tongue over Steve’s nipple. “Not too often, anyway.”

Steve shivered and he grabbed at Stark’s hair, lost his fingers in that field of silver. “Do that again.”

“What? This?” A quick, hungry lick that had Steve gasping. “You like that?”

He yanked at Stark’s hair; now Stark was the one short of air. “Yes, sir. Please.”

“Hmmm,” Mr. Stark said. “Well, since you asked so nicely, I will. But only on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

He felt Mr. Stark’s hand between his legs, a squeeze. “Take out your pretty cock and play with it for me,” Stark said, a soft, steely order. “And don’t stop until you come, you hear me? I want to see you spend yourself on my chest.”

Which was how Steve ended up with his pants peeled down his thighs and his cock in his hand and Mr. Stark’s mouth folded over his nipples, sucking, licking; with his make-believe lover kneading at his ass and lifting his hips as if he were giving it to Steve, as if were his hand on Steve’s dick, as if they really meant something to each other beyond a signed piece of paper locked in Stark’s lawyer’s safe, and when he came, clawing at the back of Mr. Stark’s jacket and stroking himself through each hot pulse of pleasure, when Mr. Stark tipped back and looked up at him in goddamn fucking wonder, Steve felt a spring of something more than simply lust in his heart.

“Well, look at that,” Mr. Stark said, each word dipped in honey. “You can be a good boy, can’t you? When you want to be.”

Steve leaned down and kissed him, long and deep and sweet, and Mr. Stark sighed and scratched at his shoulders and stroked the sweat that had gathered at the small of Steve’s back.

“Mmmm, yes.” Steve looked down and saw the mess he’d made of Stark’s tie, his vest. “With the proper motivation, I guess.” His eyes kept moving down, came to crest on the fat stretch in Mr. Stark’s pants. "But, oh, Mr. Stark, you’re--”

Stark traced his ribs. “I’m what?”

“You’re still hard.”

A grunt. “Believe me, I know.”

Steve reached down with wet fingers, his eyes drooping with pleasant exhaustion. “Then let me--”

Mr. Stark slapped his hand away and their eyes met, a flash heat lightning. “ _No_.”

“No?”

“No. You don’t get a reward for bad behavior.”

Steve’s back went up. “What bad behavior?”

“Before.” Mr. Stark’s hand found Steve’s spine, lazy; his face was now, too. And a little smug. “You couldn’t stay awake, remember? So you can’t have that. Not tonight.”

“But I want it.” He bent his head again and licked at Mr. Stark’s mouth, his tiredness forgotten, a fish rising to bait. “Please, Mr. Stark.”

He felt Stark’s breath catch. “You heard me.”

“Please?”

“I said no.”

“Just from the outside. I’ll keep everything buttoned. All I want to do is touch you.”

Stark whimpered but he didn’t push Steve away; instead, his fingers found their way to Steve’s bare shoulders. “Jesus, baby.”

Steve felt that lightning again, the shimmer of unfamiliar emotion. He’d never talked like this to anyone in bed before. He’d never wanted to. But then, he’d never met a man like Anthony Stark: a buttoned-up libertine who liked making rules but didn’t especially like to follow them, even if they were in a contract. Something told him this wasn’t the first time Stark had breached the terms of a deal, though probably not quite like this. It was strange--there was so little he know about the man, really, and yet in some ways, he felt as if he already understood Mr. Stark better than people Stark had known for twenty years. Kismet, wasn’t that what they called it? Two people, the right time, the right place.

Maybe for them, this was it.

He closed his eyes and laid his mouth over Stark’s again, another slow caramel kiss. “Let me touch your cock, sir,” he murmured when it was broken. “Please.”

And then Mr. Stark’s hand was on his, pulling, and they both were falling, plunging into the heat that still lay nestled between Mr. Stark’s thighs, and when Steve’s palm brushed against steel, a warm pool of wet, Stark’s moan drowned out his own.

“Like this,” Mr. Stark said, strained. “You can touch me for a minute, baby. But only like this. Understand?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes one writes stories for plot and sometimes simply for sex. This one's decided to be the latter, it seems.


	9. Chapter 9

“Yes.” The kid’s big mitt brushed his away, gently. “Just like this.”

His eyes left Tony’s and tumbled down and what made Tony certain, goddamn fucking sure that Steve was gonna make him ruin his trousers was the sight of the kid concentrating on making him feel good, biting his bottom lip as he turned his hand, spread it, carefully captured Tony’s full length. And then, before Tony could get in a good breath, the beautiful bastard, he _squeezed._

“Ah, god,” Tony’s mouth said. He had no idea how. It was all he could in that moment to remember to breath. “Jesus god.”

His dick was trapped beneath silk and wool and all he could feel was the rough rub of it, the heat of his skin, and beyond it, the pressure of Steve’s fingers tracing the swell of the head.

“Oh, fuck,” the kid said. He looked up. Blinked. ‘You are wet.”

Tony’s hips kicked and Steve’s hand was there to meet him. “I wonder why.”

Steve shivered, this lovely little tremor that shook his whole body, that reminded Tony of how much of his gorgeous, smooth skin there was still bared for him to touch. He might be buttoned to the throat and kicking himself for it, but the kid’s pants were still open for God’s sake and still hiked down past the swell of his ass. His knees were jammed against Tony’s hips, his full weight borne on Tony’s thighs, and fuck, he thought, gritting his teeth as Steve ran his knuckles down his shaft, walking tomorrow was gonna be hell on wheels. But dear God, if every aching step made him remember Steve like this, his chest flushed and his breath hot as he worked magic with just the tease of his hand, then the groan of his bones would be worth it. Better than.

He didn’t realize he was gaping until Steve bent his head and licked into his mouth. He shoved his fingers through the kid’s hair and held him there as Steve sucked on his tongue.

“I bet you taste good,” Steve whispered against his chin, soft skin finding whiskers, nails scraping hot wool. “I wish you were dripping into my mouth, Mr. Stark.”

“I bet you do,” Tony managed. “And if you’d have been a good boy, you could have it. Your mouth could be full right now. But you weren’t, were you?”

Steve made a sweet, hurt sound. “No.”

“No, you weren’t.” He was working himself against the kid’s hand now, unashamed, and it was worse, it was so much better, even, because Steve was moving again, too, his big dick hot again, stiffening, catching the seam of Tony’s pants, and oh, hell, oh hell, it was a good thing he couldn’t see that, was swallowed up Steve’s gaze, because if it could see Steve getting hard again just from petting him like this, like they were boys in the back of some car fooling around on a dark street when they should have been heading for home. It felt dirty, having Steve rub him off and pant in his face and he’d had honest to god intercourse that hadn’t lit him up as good as this. Maybe because the kid, for all his blushing, was relentless.

He bit Tony’s ear, breathed: “But you want me to suck you. I know you do.”

Christ. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It doesn’t?” Steve sucked a kiss into his throat. “I think it does.”

“No, yes, fuck, it matters, mmmmm, but you behaving yourself matters more.”

“Why?” Steve’s grip lifted, melted into a slow, snowflake brush. “Why do you want to tell me what to do?”

Tony’s head fell back and he groaned, loud enough to shake the fucking sofa, to make the china on the mantelpiece shake. “I haven’t heard you complaining, baby. You seemed happy enough to spend my money today, huh?”

“You told me to.” His fingers lingered over the swollen head, rubbed in the wet there, the precum and the sweat. “You told me to do that, Mr. Stark.”

“That’s what I mean. I asked you to do something and you did it. That’s good. That’s so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s hand went steel again, caught Tony in a hard, hungry squeeze. “You like that?”

He pawed at Steve’s chest and pinched at his nipples, clawed at his pecs, and oh hell and fucking damn, he could feel Steve’s dick bumping eagerly against the back of Steve’s hand. Shit, what he would have given for Steve to open him up, to pop his fly and pull his cock out and fold the both of them into his big, greedy fist.

_Shit_. The picture in his head made his balls jump. His dick tucked against Steve's, that big sweet-looking monster. His precum smeared on Steve's tip.  _Shit._

“Oh god,” he heard himself say; words he didn’t feel in his mouth, that just fucking slipped out. “Oh, fuck, baby. I’m gonna come.”

Steve growled, tucked the sound against Tony’s neck, and closed his hand again, started moving, a tight, gorgeous slide. “Please,” he said in a voice Tony hadn’t heard before, low and strong. “Do it. Please come."

“I’d rather come down your throat,” Tony babbled, way past the cliff of sense. Jesus, what the fuck was he saying? “Feel you swallow it. Or shoot all over your pretty fucking face.”

“Mmmm.”

“Would you like that? If you could taste me right now? If I took it out and put you on your knees and covered your mouth with my spunk?”

Steve shuddered and his hand stuttered, his hips wrenched. “Yes, Mr. Stark. Please, Mr. Stark. Can I?"

Tony dug his nails into the kid’s crown and felt the last thread of his control snap. “No,” he panted in the kid’s ear. “No, baby. You can’t.”

Steve made a sound like a balloon popping, high and tight, and then the whole world was white and Tony was pouring himself out for Steve, his balls jerking, his spend soaking his pants and the stretch of Steve’s hand and it felt like it would never stop, that pleasure, the beautiful pain of his release as Steve snuffled in his ear and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d come this hard, like it was being yanked out him, a long slender ripcord that this kid had managed to find and yank for all he was worth.

But the best part, the best, was when they kissed in the middle of the maelstrom, a slash of teeth and tongues that had them both gasping.

“Oh, god,” Steve spat against Tony’s lips, his hips churning. “Oh god oh god oh god.”

“Go on,” Tony managed. It was like talking through taffy; his tongue felt fat and slow. “You need to come again, sweetheart? Touch yourself, yes, just like that. There's my good boy."

This time, Steve stayed close to him while he jerked off, their foreheads pressed together, Tony’s hand cupping Steve’s face, Steve’s arm thrown around his neck, the sofa protesting almost as much as Tony’s thighs. Ah, Tony thought dreamily, wearily, as he drank in the kid’s needy pants, to be young again.

Truth be told, though, the only thing he really missed about being young was a dick that did what he told it; he didn’t miss being so clueless about the world, so blinded to it, so (in his case) fucking dumb. He’d never had his shit together at 25 the way Steve seemed to, empty bank account or no; he’d sure as hell never had a purpose or a goal.

But then, he’d never had to fight for it like Steve had, had he? For him, there’d always been money. For this kid, this beautiful boy who was quivering in his arms, not so much.

_Huh_ , Tony thought, stroking Steve’s fevered cheek. _He needs me_.

And it did something to him, the idea of being needed. Send a different kind of shiver down his spine. He’d never been with anyone who really needed him, not like that. His first wife hadn’t; she’d been richer than he had, as well as a hell of a cold fish. Nat sure as hell hadn’t needed him, either; she’d have broken his arm if he’d offered her a dollar or an ounce of too much sentiment. Even Pep, a career girl, she wooed by wine and roses, she was independent, stood on her own; what she had of the world, what she'd made of herself, it was hers.

And Bucky, well. What he needed wasn’t money, so much. And those needs came on his own terms, on his own time. Tony didn't get much of a say.

But Steve--beautiful, big, impossibly young and idealistic Steve--he needed Tony, goddamnit, and not just his money. He needed protection. He needed affection. He needed somebody to show him the way through the world. And who better was there to guide him--even in the guise of make-believe, in the messiness that tonight would make of tomorrow morning--than Tony Stark? The kid might not know it yet, might not exactly like being bossed around, but it was a hell of a lucky thing their paths had crossed, wasn't it? Damn right it was. Because Steve Rogers needed Tony in his life right then. Hell yes, he did. 

“Steve,” he said softly. He kissed the kid’s jaw, nuzzled his five o'clock shadow. “Go on, honey. It’s ok. Come for me. Come.”

Steve’s back arched and his fist flew and when he lost it, painted the damp front of Tony’s trousers, he moaned, a lost desert sort of sound that sunk river-rock fast past Tony’s ear and down to his heart.

“Baby,” he murmured. He smoothed down the softening lines of Steve’s back and let himself be gently crushed as Steve collapsed into him with a long, satisfied sigh. “It’s all right now. I’ve got you, Steve. I’ve gotcha."  
  
_And_ , he thought somewhere, knowing, _contract or not, kiddo, you’ve got me_.


	10. Chapter 10

“Relax,” Mr. Stark said in his ear. He was leaning across the back seat of the car, his arm stretched across leather and the bow of Steve’s shoulders. “You’re gonna do great.”

Steve kept his eyes on their reflection in the rain-drenched window where the night’s lights shadowed their faces. Even still, he could see that he looked as pale as he felt. “Mmm, god. I don’t know. I feel--I feel like I won’t know what to say to anybody.”

“Ah, ah. Now, that’s the trick, isn’t it? Your presence alone, my dear boy, will get every tony-ed tongue in the place wagging; they’ll be dying of curiosity about you. If you don’t want to, believe me, you won’t have to say a damned thing.” He slid closer, his hip nudging Steve’s, and his fingers found the back of Steve’s neck. “Really, Steve. I promise I’m not throwing you into the deep end. The Maximoffs are old money, yeah, but the kids are lifelong friends. And they have fantastic fucking security; Russians, you know, the kind who stripped Kalashnikovs for fun during the war. They won’t let any of the press touch you. Because only I get to do that.” 

Steve leaned back into Mr. Stark’s fingers and Mr. Stark hummed, a warm sound that reminded Steve of the night before, of the soft sounds the man had made as he held Steve, after, after Steve had splattered his nice trousers with come.

“See?” Mr. Stark was murmuring now. “It’s all right, darling. I wouldn’t do that to you, would I, on your first night out--toss you straight into the lion’s den, hmm?”

“No,” Steve said, the word more like a sigh. “I know you wouldn’t.”

Mr. Stark nuzzled his cheek. “Good.”

His hand was on Mr. Stark’s thigh now. He knew that if he looked down, he’d see his own broad, pale fingers climbing over dark fabric, and he’d want to keep reaching for the swell he knew was there, that he’d felt the night before, that he could tease awake and then find the zipper, oh yes.

“Now,” Mr. Stark said, as if now were the best time for a serious conversation, “you remember where we met, yes?”

“Turks and Caicos." They'd come up with it in a burst of silliness on the sofa as they floated back down, Mr. Stark chuckling and Steve giggling in his arms.

“Mmmhmm.”

“You crashed your dune buggy into our cabana. Everyone was really angry about it. Except me.”

Mr. Stark chuckled. Steve felt the scratch of his beard. “Yes, except you. You offered me a drink.”

“I gave you a cigarette.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“We’ve only be reunited a few weeks,” Steve said, breathless now, his body caught between arousal and nerves. “I came back a month ago and gave you a call and--”

Mr. Stark reached down and caught Steve’s wrist. Drew Steve’s hand up, pulled it higher until Steve’s hand was brushing the swell of his balls. “I’ve barely let you out of bed since. No one there will blame me.”

“Mr. Stark--!”

“Mmmm.” Mr. Stark kissed his jaw, the edge of his throat. “God, no, they won’t.”

They hadn’t seen each other all day, Steve thought dizzly; that was the problem. Another day at the office for Mr. Stark--”CEOs,” he’d lectured Steve at breakfast, “don’t have Saturdays”--and for him, a long day of paint and rearranging, of eating too much and putting brush to canvas and having too much time to think about the night before, about Mr. Stark’s eyes, about the the way he’d felt the man’s body shake when Steve had called him _sir._

For some reason, it was more difficult to come to terms with it while Mr. Stark was gone, to reconcile that feeling of connection that he’d sense with the pure flashfire of desire he still could not shake. It was difficult, he’d realized as he’d dressed for dinner, because some part of him had waited the whole day for Mr. Stark to walk in the front door once more and kiss him, god, and kiss him again.

It was romantic foolishness, that was the answer he’d come to. Pablum. The stuff of the weepy movies his mom used to like. He was telling himself a story about what last night had meant that had no actual basis in reality. Which was this:

Mr. Stark was paying him to be a good boy, and he had been. And he’d enjoyed it. Even if sex wasn’t in the actual contract, it had felt like part of the bargain last night and that was ok, wasn’t it? If he’d taken pleasure in it, if Mr. Stark had, then what was the problem? It wasn’t a crime to sleep with someone you were paying.

Except, he recalled as he’d stepped out of the building and ducked into the town car, it kind of was, wasn’t it? In semi-breaching the terms of their contract, had he become a whore?

This thought might have troubled him further had the car been unoccupied, but much to his surprise, Mr. Stark was in the backseat, smiling, looking tired but dressed up to the nines.

“Hi,” Mr. Stark had said, a little playful. “Miss me, darling?”

And Steve had climbed in and shot over and kissed Mr. Stark because he wanted to, because he had missed the man, because he wanted to feel--if only for a moment--an echo of what it had been like last night. He'd take the story of that over self-flagellation any day.

“Hey now,” Mr. Stark had said when Steve let him go. “No need for all that. You could’ve just said yes.”

“Oh.”

“Tsk tsk.” Mr. Stark’s hands had found his face; that blinding grin again. “Baby, I wasn’t complaining. But let’s get you there without that suit mashed to wrinkles, hmmm? Need you at your best for your big fucking debut.”

Which was what had spooked Steve, had gotten him crowded against the door, his heart racing. But now they were close once more and he felt so much better; well, at least he could breathe.

“You are going to be beautiful,” Mr. Stark said, his thigh twitching under Steve’s hand. “Nat is going to love you and the camera is, too, and when we get home, if you’re very, very good, I’ll give you something that I know you’ll like.”

Steve laughed. It came out high and thready. “Is that so?”

A growl. “It is. And rest assured, it won’t matter who’s around--I’ll be dying to give it to you all night.” Mr. Stark petted his chest, skimmed his fingers over the mother-of-pearl studs in Steve’s shirt. “Remember that when we pass by the cameras on the way in, all right? While they’re passing the champagne and foie gras and handing out big thick cigars. I would trade all of that shit, the company of all these important people, to have you once more in my arms.”

“Kiss me.” The words came out before Steve could stop them. “Oh god, sir. Please.”

Mr. Stark groaned and his hands curled. He kissed Steve’s cheek, soft and wet. “If I do that, we’ll never get out of this car.”

A yaw of yearning, of sudden, perfect need; it opened beneath him like an abyss “Mr. Stark, _please_.”

“God, you have to stop saying that.”

“Why?” He twisted, but Mr. Stark’s hands were firm; his body was, too, pinning Steve between him and the door. 

“Because one day, baby, you’ll ask and I won’t be able to say no.” A rumble in Steve’s ear, a catch of sharp teeth. “And worse--oh, so much worse, fuck--I won’t want to.”

A swarm of flashbulbs broke the spell; they were visible even before the car stopped. Jarvis came to the door and Steve tumbled out in a haze.

It was only when Mr. Stark took his arm, his fingers curled firm around Steve’s elbow, that Steve really remembered where he was, what he was supposed to be doing and why, exactly, he was sweeping through a cloud of shouting photogs on the arm of one Anthony Stark.

“See?” Mr. Stark said in the lobby as they stood before the elevator catching their breath. Well, Steve needed to; Mr. Stark, remarkably, seemed pleased but nonplussed. “You were wonderful.”

“Was I?”

“Mmm. You never looked right at them.” Mr. Stark chuckled. “They _hate_ that. They’ll be madder than hornets when they come back. Hell, they might even hang out there all night.”

Steve blinked. “But why?”

The elevator opened and Mr. Stark towed him into the car. “Because, my dear,” he said, punching the button for _penthouse_ , “they’re dying to know who you are and what the hell you’re doing with me. Mystery, it’s all part of the game. They’re like football studs on prom night: they’re furious when you won’t give it up.”

 _The game_. Steve swallowed. His thoughts hit a brick wall. _To him, i_ _t's all a game. Right_. 

No matter what Mr. Stark had said before--or would say again, for that matter--for him, none of this was real. Not part of some silly love story. They could fool around and they could kiss and even get each other off, but only because, for Mr. Stark, it was business. All energy spent, after all, in order to make his brand sell. Even if they went back to Mr. Stark’s home tonight and Mr. Stark took him to bed, for Stark, it was all simply part of the act.

God, he thought, it was so fucking confusing, like having his heart on a yo-yo. Or maybe it wasn't. Didn't seem to be to Mr. Stark. Maybe he was the one making it so.

Steve squared his shoulders and brushed at his lapels, straightened the lines of his dinner jacket. “Sure,” he said in a voice stronger, sterner. “If we’re lucky, they’ll be there when we leave. Maybe I can lay one on you right as we step out of the front door, huh? They’ll catch us right under the streetlight."

Mr. Stark’s eyes flicked to his face, flicked away. “Yeah, sure, kid,” he said, tugging at his bow tie. “That’d be great.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if there will be more, but I hope so! At the very least, I'd love to know what's going on with Tony and Bucky, and why exactly Bucky recommended Steve for this gig...


End file.
